


Like Spitting on the Flag

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:39:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair are forced to have sex. (Original ideas? What are those?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Spitting on the Flag

## Like Spitting on the Flag

by Persephone

You know, if these guyus were mine, I wouldn't have been sitting here avoiding a math test. I'd be doing the same thing in front of a much, much better computer that had something better than WordPad.

All mistakes are mine. Unbeta'd.   
I love feedback - write to me!

Yet another fuck or die situation, this one with poor Simon watching. If you like fuck-or-die situation, there's a good one in Anna Monique's "Trigger Effect" and in Katrina Bowen's "Beyond the End".

* * *

Simon groaned and opened his eyes. The light was too bright. He closed them again. 

"Oh, awake, are we? Rise and shine, Captain Banks." The voice was unfamiliar, male and sickeningly sweet in tone. 

Reluctantly, Simon opened his eyes. The man in front him was vaguely familiar - where had he seen him? 

The man smiled, and the image settled in Simon's mind. Colin Reeves, one of the people they'd interviewed after a series of murders, all done with a methodity that practically screamed 'serial killer'. What was the man doing here? 

Simon tried getting up, and found that he couldn't. A look down told him his wrists and ankles were cuffed to what seemed like some demented version of an operation table. To add insult to injury, his mouth was stuffed with something hard and unyielding. Ball gag, probably. 

Well. Looks like they found the killer after all. 

"You like my equipment? I rigged it myself. And that's just the start." Reeves hit a button on the wall, and the table Simon was lying on started to rise, until he found himself faced with a television monitor. Another button pushed, and the screen came to life in a flurry of snow. 

Reeves smiled ruefully. "I had to play with the transmission so it'd do all the things I want. It should be better in a few minutes." 

Simon closed his eyes, and tried to straighten his thoughts. The last thing he remembered, he'd been out on the Ceare case with Ellison and Sandburg, and they'd just... 

Oh god. Ellison and Sandburg. Were they here too? 

As if to answer him, the static noise coming out of the monitor screen stopped. Simon opened his eyes to see both of his best detectives sprawled on the flour, completely naked. 

After a few seconds, Sandburg moved. "What.." he asked, his voice blurry. He looked around, scrabbling to get up. Then he seemed to get where he was, because his back went straight so quickly Simon could've sworn it snapped. He started shaking Ellison. "Jim!" he called urgently, and when Ellison failed to respond, Sandburg gave a disgusted sigh and pinched him. Hard. 

"Ow! What--" Ellison started, but Sandburg didn't give him a chance. 

"Sorry about that, but we don't have time for the sleeping beauty act. Where are we?" 

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" Still groggy. Whatever Reeves had given them still had impact on him. 

"Listen! Smell! I don't know, there has to be something!" 

"Can't." Ellison shook his head, as if to get something particularly nasty out of his hair. "It's all screwy. What the fuck did those bastards give me this time?" 

Reeves smiled at Simon. Again. "Time to make an appearance, don't you think?" He took a little microphone into his hand, tapped it and spoke into it. "Hello, Detectives. How are you?" 

Both Ellison and Sandburg froze. 

"My name is Colin, but I believe you know me as the Slasher. I'm sure we could be very good friends - I'm already very impressed with your Captain. Do you have anything to say, Captain Banks?" The madman put the mike on front of Simon's gagged mouth. Simon tried to say something, anything, but the best that came out was a muffled groan. Reeves snatched the mike back. 

"Fuck!" Sandburg was on his feet. "What did you do to him, you sick shit?" 

Reeves gave a delighted laugh. "Ah, Detective Sandburg, what an unpleasant phrase! Surely you wouldn't go around calling people such crude things?" His voice grew dark. "Especially not if they hold your Captain prisoner, I should hope." 

Sandburg froze, then looked up defiantly. "Waht do you want?" 

"Beside the pleasure of your company?" The light, sweet tone was back. "You know, I was increadibly amused that the press chose to call me 'Slasher'. Do you know why, Detective Sandburg?" 

Thank god, the kid chose not to say anything. 

"Of course, they were referring to my method of... shall we say, disposing of the friends I made? I'm loathe to use such unpleasant terms in my home. But there is another meaning to that name, although I'm afraid most people would fail to recognize it. 

"There is a literary genre, in which an author takes characters invented by someone else - mostly taken from television series or movies - and describes a relationship which was not presented in the original series or movie. Mostly, these relationships occur between two men." 

On the screen, Sandburg went still suddenly. "Oh my god. You bastard." 

Simon frowned. What... 

Oh fuck. The murders happened in pairs. All of the murdered were men, always close friends found together. One of the bodies found always showed signs of rape, and the semen samples didn't match each other. 

That son of a bitch. 

"Now, I see how you might object to the rather painful way in which I broached the subject, but some people are truly too stupid about some matters. It was obvious to the most unobservant fool in each of those cases, I assure you." 

"What do you want?" Sandburg's voice was unnaturally quiet. 

"He wants us, Chief." Ellison's voice cut through. The detective looked thoroghly sick, and Simon wasn't sure at all it was from the drugs. 

"Quite right, Detective Ellison." 

"Forget it." Ellison's voice was rough and cold. "Over my dead body." 

Reeves laughed again, the chilling sound of a hyena preying on a mesmerised child. "I'm afraid necrofilia is not my style, and I fear Detective Sandburg will also be quite repulsed by things of the sort." 

Sandburg began to pace. "Look, whatever sick plans you have for us--" 

"I did mention I had your Captain with me, Detectives." Reeves pushed a button, and-- 

**OH GOD--**

Simon colapsed back to the table. His feet were burning - shit, his whole body was burning - but it wasn't as bad as the unimaginable fire that went through him for a few seconds. 

He looked back at the monitor screen, and Sandburg was white as a sheet. Ellison was staring at the wall, his face a blank. Had he screamed? Probably. 

"That, my friends, was the sound electricity makes when passing through a human body. Isn't it lovely?" Reeves didn't wait for an answer. "I don't have time for more.. inventive.. methods of persuasion. The deal is simple; you two have intercourse, and your Captain shall remain electricity-free." Reeves paused, then continued. "You know what, I'll cut you a deal. Commit fellatio on each other, and I'll provide you with lubrication. How about that?" 

Simon closed his eyes, determined to give two men who were his friends at least that much dignity. 

A smack to his head caught his attention. "Oh no, Captain. Open your eyes, or I'm afraid all our efforts here would be wasted. I'd hate to kill a pair so full of... potential... but I will if I have to. If a tree falls down without anyone listening, it never made a sound." 

Hell, even watching Ellison and Sandburg having sex should be better than dying; if they could do this much for him, he could at least keep his eyes open. 

Simon's first impulse was to close his eyes again. It seemed so essentially _wrong_ that they did this. Shit, he knew they cared about each other - you'd have to be blind to miss it - but even if they _had_ chosen to have sex, which as far as Simon knew they hadn't, no psycho had any right to take something that should be privet and special and make it into an act of violence. 

He knew what Reeves was trying to do. He took advantage of affection and friendship and maybe love, and twisted it into a sick parody of what it should be. Like those dumb kids who spat on the flag, he took a symbol for something he thought he hated, something he couldn't control, and desecrated it. 

But what those kids never got was that the flag was exactly that - a symbol. Just a bunch of cloth and dye, and spitting on it didn't change shit. And the same thing was going on here, if you knew where to look. 

Ellison had Sandburg in his mouth, eyes closed, an expression of concentration on his face, as if he was trying to make it at least alright, not to bite or something. Sandburg, though occasionally licking Jim's genitals, was mostly talking, too soft for Simon to hear. 

He knew the expression, though. Apart from the occasionnal bursts of pleasure on his face, he was mostly wearing the face Simon had come to associate with a zoned Jim - soft and determined at the same time, low voice, never hesitating because Sandburg knew that if he couldn't help Jim, there wasn't anyone who could. 

Reeves turned a lever and now Simon could hear. "--yeah, you're doing great, we're both doing okay. You got taste dialled down? Should be easier if it is. Just don't zone on me, alright, man? Not yet. Don't worry, though, I'm sure we've been missed by now - the cavalary should come marching down any minute now." Sandburg went on and on, words that had no specific meaning and no importance at all, just distracting Jim from what he was doing. 

"God, does he ever shut up?" Reeves asked rethorically. 

Not very often, thank god, Simon thought. 

Reeves picked up the mike. "Alright, gentlemen. That's enough for now. Now, who will be, shall we say, on the receiving end?" 

Simon half expected Sandburg to volunteer, but it was Jim who answered. "Me." 

Sandburg seemed as surprised as Simon was. "Jim--" 

Jim turned to Sandburg, looking at him matter-of-factly. "I can dial down pain. You can't." 

"Dial down?" Reeved looked at Simon, curious. Simon shrugged, and Reeves let it go, turning to his control board. Simon leaned back and closed his eyes. He could hear Reeves pushing a few buttons and leaving the room, and when the door opened again Simon opened his eyes. The psycho might think he needed a reminder; it wouldn't do good to anyone if he couldn't walk when the rest of the squad came for them. 

Soon. Please, God, soon. 

On the monitor, what previously seemed to be a blank wall opened up to reveal another door, this one closed, and something Simon couldn't make out. He didn't particularly want to, anyway. 

"An airlock?" Sandburg said, an edge of hysteria to his voice. "Are we going to launch? Because I forgot to pack my space suit--" 

"Blair," Jim said, putting his hand on Sandburg's shoulder. The kid looked down to it and, thankfully, got himself back together. "Sorry," he said. 

Jim shrugged and got down to the floor, hesitating for a second before getting on his hands and knees. "Should be easiest this way." 

Sandburg knelt beside him, and Simon couldn't see what he was doing; Sandburg's hands were blocked by his body. Mercifully, Sandburg shifted as he started preparing Jim; Simon think he'd even know how to repress that image, because no matter what Sandburg said, some memories are best left forgotten. 

After a few minutes, Reeves started to get impatient. "I hate to disturb you, my little love birds, but we really don't have all day. I suggest you get to the business, Detective Sandburg." 

Sandburg leaned closer to Jim, and Reeves turned a dial that must have been the volume control, because Simon could hear him say, "--ready, man?" 

"Just get it over with," Jim grunted. 

Simon tried to look at the floor beside Jim as the kid got into him. He kept talking through the whole thing, about everything and nothing, murmuring soft assurances that didn't need words. Reeves fidgeted with the buttons, and the picture zoomed until he had nowhere to look except at his detectives. His friends. 

There was unsurprising pain on Jim's face, but Sandburg was moving slowly, touching Jim all the time, his thighs and his arms and his face, telling him to take it easy, everything was fine, no rush, and Jim seemed to appreciate the merciful lies. 

One of Sandburg's hands snuck down, touching Jim in a way that wasn't exactly meant to relax, squeezing gently. That made sense - another distraction. It should help Jim to take his mind off what was going on, and that was the purpose, wasn't it? 

Sandburg's other hand was down by one of Jim's, and slowly, oh so slowly, their hands joined, clasping each other in a timeless symbol of affinity and closeness, and somehow, it seemed more intimate than what they were doing to each other. Simon found himself focusing on their hands, on their faces, ignoring the frantic movements of their bodies. 

Jim's face had a far-off look to them now, beyond pain or pleasure, in whatever place he went to when he zoned. For once, Sandburg wasn't trying to bring him back. 

After what seemed like hours, Sandburg tensed up, gasped and collapsed for just a second before pushing himself up again, muttering "Sorry, sorry..." 

He pulled himself out of Jim's body, and Simon did his best not to see the wince on Jim's face. Sandburg crouched over Jim, panting. "You alright?" 

The next few moments carried an emptiness, the silence of those who have too much to say and can't say it. For that moment, Simon was glad for the gag he wore. 

And then there were sirens, and not long after that Rafe and Brown broke in. 

* * *

Eventually, everything that happened managed to become small and unimportant. Or maybe it was important, but it was ignored anyway, in the way policemen had always shoved the less pleasant aspects of their job into some unexplored part of their consciousness. 

Jim and Blair had given a statement, and in the report words like 'penetration' and 'no physical damage' made it look mechanical; just another day at work. 

But obviously, it wasn't, because a week later Sandburg showed up in Simon's office with a change-of-address form. 

"What is this?" Simon asked. 

"It's a change-of-address form,'' Sandburg replied helpfully. 

"I can see that. What I meant is, why is it lying on my desk?" 

"Well, obviously, I'm moving. I thought you'd appreciate the information, what with you being Captain and everything." 

Simon groaned. "Sandburg, will you answer the damned question?" 

Sandburg sighed. "To tell the truth, Simon, I'd really rather not to talk about it." 

"Tough. I don't want to hear about it, but does that help me?" 

Sandburg looked down. "I suppose." He fidgeted in his chair. "It's just, I can't really stay there, you know? Not after Reeves." 

"Jim tell you that?" 

"No!" Sandburg gave him a horrified look. "Jim wouldn't.. he wouldn't, alright? He wouldn't throw me out or anything. Not because of this." 

"Then why are you throwing yourself out?" 

"Simon." Sandburg was looking him straight in the eye now. "What would you do if you were me? Stay there, milking the guy's guilt, or just... I don't know, move on?" 

"What does Jim think about this?" Simon inquired. 

"Ask him when he knows." 

Simon looked up in exasperation. "I do not need this." He returned his eyes to Sandburg's level. "Look. Do all of us a favor, okay? Go. Talk to him. Straighten this mess out." With a gentler tone, he added, "How is he doing?" 

"Alright, I guess. No nightmares or anything. He's seeing the department psychologist." 

"You should pay her a visit too, you know." 

Sandburg laughed. "Simon, man, do you have any idea how many shrinks I've been to? Even if I wanted to go, it wouldn't work on me. I know all the right answers by heart." 

But when Sandburg left, he didn't take the form with him. Simon balled it up and threw it away. 

* * *

"Shit, Sandburg," Simon gasped, "how many books do you own?" 

Sandburg flashed him a smile, a genuine one, for what seemed like the first time in weeks. "Sorry, Simon. You talked me into moving back, you carry the boxes." 

"Ungrateful kid," Simon muttered under his breath. For some reason, he felt suspiciously colse to smiling himself. 

Well, he had a good reason. The day after Sandburg showed up in his office, he and Jim appeared at the station, and although things weren't really all that different than they were the day before, they were. 

For example, the careful distance they kept from each other for all that time vanished into their usual disrespect of each other's personal space. And Jim had an expression that on anybody else would have been called a grin. A goofy grin, at that. 

"That's the last one," Jim called as he landed another box crammed with Sandburg's stuff. "Chief, is someone spiritually enlightened supposed to have so much stuff?" 

"Never said I was enlightened, man. Naomi considers me the black sheep of the family now, didn't I tell you?" 

Jim answered this with a shrug. He turned to Simon. "Thanks, Simon. Want a beer?" 

Simon, who was supposed to be on duty in an hour, declined and left. 

Of course, because he had to be at the station in an hour and wanted to shower and rest a bit before that, he found out , halfway out of the building, that he forgot his cigars at Jim's place. He sighed irritably and got back into the elevator. 

When Simon walked back in, Jim and Blair were standing a respectable three feet apart. Simon, who used to be a detective, noticed that several of Sandburg's shirt buttons were missing and that both of his best detectives were breathing quite heavily. 

And Simon, who already saw more of Jim and Blair than any sane man would want to, smiled, took his cigars and left without a word. 

* * *

End Like Spitting on the Flag by Persephone: persefone_il@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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